


Seventh Year

by LiberteaAndScones



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Pottertalia - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3800329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberteaAndScones/pseuds/LiberteaAndScones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred, with anxiety bestowed upon him, asks a certain Brit to the Yule Ball. Angst ensues, coupled with the light relief of resolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seventh Year

The first year, Alfred F. Jones had been his tormentor. The one that would crop up from time to time, call him a limey, then disappear into the shadows for a few weeks.

The second and third he initiated these encounters more frequently, though added more of a twist to it. Maybe ask about personal matters – family, pets, that sort of thing. He didn’t seem to be half as good at maintaining a conversation as he was at disturbing the Brit.

The fourth and fifth, he had found himself into Arthur’s daily life, from asking for help with his potions assignment (even though Arthur’s skill in that department was sub-par at best) to following him into the library to give _Arthur_ a hand. Half of the time he got them kicked out, but at least his heart was in the right place.

Sixth…was a confusing one. Alfred seemed a lot more keen to avoid his companion of sorts, always pulling an excuse such as Quidditch practise with a violent hue to either cheek in order to accomplish this. He never had quite been able to decipher nor describe the look on the other’s face during these attempts.

And now it was the seventh. Their senior year – the last chance to exchange contact details, tracking charms, etcetera. Not to mention it coincided perfectly with the year’s Yule ball, a custom of the Triwizard Tournament. Kiku had been chosen in place of Alfred, much to the other’s chagrin, so neither had a lot to do. In theory, that may account for the events of the day previous.

* * *

 

Arthur’s scene of tranquillity – a musty library, surrounded by books and quiet on either side, not to mention the silent promises of retaining such a thing – was well-kempt at the time, the vibrant, illustrious greens, reds, blue and browns of book spines almost glowing in contrast to the aged, untouched tomes for some test or another that few had the drive to prepare for. An old, oaky smell assaulted his sinuses, a welcome presence amongst the unrelenting glow of the afternoon sun. Not unlike any other, Arthur was contributing to the unspoken reinforcement of quiet. Of course, that was what he did.

Until he began to pick up on something. The irrefutable stench of B.O, crudely masked by oodles and oodles of cologne was the first thing that alerted him of the American’s presence, though he simply lingered there. The odd whisper or so confided that he was in the process of gathering his thoughts, though aside from that, the prefect had no reason at all not to suspect the other was breathing down his neck for no reason.

“Uuuh… Artie?”

 _Finally._ The Briton’s hands slackened his grip around the pages, knuckles only just making the transition from white to pink. Beside him, the very bloke in question stood, hair slicked back (just wait – he’ll get told off for that later on after lunch), and digits twirling around his wand – calloused, jumpy. This was what first aroused his suspicions. Alfred _never_ behaved in such a manner. “What is it this time? Rejected by Sakura, perhaps?” Arthur did the unthinkable: close the book in front of him. The American now had the rare honour of grasping his full attention.

“Huh? No, no… It’s not that. Listen, you wanna go somewhere more…? Private, y’know.” Arthur gazed upon the other in perplexity. Perturbing still, Alfred was making no move to sign this off as a joke. His brow – adorned with a film of sweat – and teeth – clamping his bottom lip in a death-vice – made it all too obvious that this was worth listening to.

“Fine. Do try not to squander my time, however – that assignment has to be in post-haste.” Straightening his tie, discarding his quill, scraping chair legs behind him, Arthur rose. Alfred gazed in approval, eyes glittering almost childishly. Why would such an act render him so pleased? Arthur hadn’t agreed to anything.

“Great, great! Don’t worry, won’t take a minute. I just gotta ask you somethin’, it’s been eating at me all day.” The efforts squandered on his tie were quickly cut short by a hand closing around that area, helping tie the knot rather than go for the old strangle-prank technique. “You ready?” He grinned, dare I say, even through the act previous. It was almost like an entirely new person was there; maybe that’s why Arthur sought companionship in the other. He was interesting, a new mood per minute.

“Get to it, would you?” With a sigh, he complied, allowing the other to drag him toward the furthest reaches of the area. The books had creased spines from here on, ugly, coated in a thick layer of dust. In fact, even the light couldn’t breach the dismal atmosphere of the place. It unsettled him. And that wasn’t just because Alfred had an odd expression on his face – like he was… Embarrassed? Afraid? “Say…we can stop, you know. I hardly think anyone is going to be within earshot all the way out _here_.”

“You’re right, you’re right… Anyway, listen.” Alfred gulped. Yes, he heard that right. Whatever this was… It was probably something more than the aftermath of his last fight with Ivan. “Would you…? Damn it, look. The Yule ball’s coming up and…I was wondering if you wanted to go? With me? Of course, if you’re not, y’know, into that kinda stuff…”

And this was where Arthur zoned out.

* * *

 

The Great Hall’s refurbishment for the occasion was momentous to say the least. Elegant colours mingled – whites and navy blues, all further accented by the attire of the Beauxbatons, save a certain obnoxious character somewhere further amongst the crowd – last time Arthur checked, he was dancing with Sakura, wait, now it was Amelia – in fact, he couldn’t be trying any further _not_ to fit in with the rest, what with his deep crimson suit, flecked with the odd strain of orange. It was vile. Although, in theory, Arthur wasn’t one to turn his nose up. He had been provided with an old dress suit by his family for the occasion, though since it had been creased from his suitcase and was, by default, several sizes too large for him, it was worn as more of a declaration that he couldn’t care less.

His shirt was untucked at the side, white fabric sprawled, dribbling down the side of his trousers. His laces, he of course neglected to tie, and his hair was, to quote the very French twat in question who was currently giving him the eye, _un parfait representation of les rosbif – unkempt and unstylish._

Alfred was there. Well, he had been for at least five minutes now, but he seemed to be testing how long he could spike the punch with fire whiskey with Gilbert until he was yelled at by the fuming Austrian at the other end of the hall who seemed to notice his beverage wasn’t as it seemed.

“Dude! I got another bottle, see if you can pour it before he gets over!”

“Are you kidding me? He is a slow old grandma! Wait, even she is more awesome at sports und the stuff! Hm… Perhaps that is where I have attained my amazing talents of awesomeness…” As the German – no, _Prussian_ , as he insisted – begun to ponder, Alfred finally struck a grin and peered around. That was when they noticed one another.

“Alfie! How long’ve you been there? Aren’t you gonna dance?”

“No, actually.” This attention was making him sick. Like the pit of his stomach had collapsed. He hadn’t said no to the other’s offer of partnership. Then again, he hadn’t said yes either. Funny how the phrase ‘I’ll think about it’ came to bite him in the arse so soon. “Besides, aren’t you busy with Gilbert? You shan’t be needing anymore social activity, I don’t think.” Before Arthur could so much as utter a syllable in addition, the American was right up in his face. He didn’t look too happy, either. Again with the lip-biting…

“Dude… I didn’t ask him, remember? I asked you. You can complain all you want, but that’s just…the way it is, I guess. And I seriously wanna spend some time with you. It’s been a while, right?”

“We were speaking just yesterday,” Arthur griped. He wasn’t just going to leap into the other’s arms, this was pathetic. He would abstain from falling for whatever ruse this was.

“Same thing! I dunno if it looks it, but I… I seriously like hanging around you. You can be cool if I look past the books and stuff. Like…” A motion – toward Arthur’s attire. His best was exulted once a hand skimmed the fabric of his dress-shirt – to not react. Such a motion probably affected him more than he would hope. “No other book-guy dressed like that. You’ve got your own style, yeah? And I totally respect that. I respect if you wouldn’t wanna hang around me and all – hey, we’re practically from different worlds! – but I’ve gotta try, right?” A…a _smile_. Despite all of this, Alfred could _smile._ “So please. I know you look at me like the whiny kid, or the one with the bad eating habits, but…give it a shot. Will you be my partner for tonight? Like a trial run for a new game, or something.”

Arthur simply couldn’t retort. He was held to the spot, constricted by his own failure to conjure syllables. The pressure was building up in his lungs. Truth be told…he had _liked_ Alfred. Nothing special, just observing from afar, really, but he…there was really something about the other that seemed unavoidable. Like rain in England. Everywhere he went, it seemed Alfred was always one step ahead, grinning back at him. Every step of the way. The terror, the boy who failed at Potions in every degree possible, and the…whatever they were now, really. It actually felt comforting.

So now, with Alfred’s hand outstretched, beckoning his smaller one, he had room to hesitate. “Well…” Just that word, that mere _consideration_ had both eyes on him, enraptured. Perhaps in those pools of baby blue – like you saw on the children in those ‘perfect family’ commercials – he saw something being reciprocated. Whatever it was, it made him nod and brought a smile to Alfred’s face. And that was all that mattered. “Fine. I suppose I agree with your proposal. However! If you intend to prolong anything, I demand you see to your conduct. No acquaintance of mine will be seen dressing like a popper. And…maybe cut back on the burgers a tad.”

The American’s eyes widened, like the other had sacrificed a small plethora of babies right before his very eyes. “Eh? C’mon, that’s impossible!” At first, during the other’s slump, Arthur had wanted to sigh. Perhaps he was being unreasonable… But then, his head raised, the Briton’s hopes along with it. “But… If it’s you, I guess I can deal. Don’t be too strict on the food though, alright? Man… Just thinkin’ about it’s got me starved…”

Blink blink.

Of all the reactions, Arthur burst into laughter. Truly. Not condescending, not diminutive, he truly… _Alfred_ truly made him do so.

“What’s so…?”

“Lord, you’re even more anxious than I was!”

The former was confused at first, beguiled by perplexity, but eventually couldn’t hold himself back from providing due company. Maybe it was the occasional snort the Englishman would deliver – _Sooo ungentlemanly! –_ perhaps it was the fire whiskey he had snuck a glug of after disremembering the contents of the punch, but for a long time after stressing this, Alfred was full-on exuberant.

Or maybe it was love.

* * *

 

“You barbarian!” Came a cry from the precise centre of the space crafted as a ballroom floor – the neat crowds of nervously aligned couples shoved aside to make way for Alfred practically flinging his poor partner around in his own dance, a mixture of swing and ballroom. “Didn’t you listen to a _word_ we were taught about this?” They were the odd ones out, so to speak, and not merely due to gender assignments. They were the only ones who looked like they _wanted_ to be there, who _enjoyed_ the other’s company.

“Ah, come on! You totally love it!” With a grin matching the Briton’s, Alfred led their careening and swerving, diving and sliding across the surface, a relentless cycle that had them both dizzied and uncaring for it.

Within time, they slowed to a neat, orderly rocking similar to the others’; Arthur needed time to catch his breath. “Whatever gave you _that_ idea?” A combination of cerulean and viridian, soft orbs a-glow ensued. It felt rather quaint, actually. Like there were only two of them – never mind Francis (Arthur believed that was the idiot’s name), Gilbert (who was pestering poor Ludwig to get out of his corner of supervision and have some ‘fun’), or the others – it was their own little world, as selfish as it sounded.

“Like, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re burning up something _fierce.”_ With a sweep of his hand, digits careened across a flushed cheek. Softly. Not the usual punches they would have exchanged as first years, no – the days of the ‘tormentor’ were long gone. “Something bothering you? You know, _aside_ from howintimidating my greatness can be.” There it was again – their running joke. They both knew the egotism was feigned; the days of the boy failing his classes enabled them to see past the façade. Nevertheless, he kept up a grin. They’d been through a whole lot since scrapping on the Hogwarts Express, ending with Alfred’s mother insulted at least twice and cheeks red from being pressed against the window.

 “No… Not especially.” Arthur cracked a laugh. Their dance had only just begun. _Especially_ when the American whooped in agreement and initiated the act of swinging the other around – legs almost off the ground from the propulsion. They snorted and swerved, beamed and guffawed, and not once did they apologise for the uproar.

First to six were long vanquished. For the seventh year, Alfred was his.


End file.
